16. The Hollow Flame

Chapter Sixteen: The Hollow Flame

Death isn't a door. It's a mirror. And sometimes, it lies.

Kael expected pain.

He expected to wake in a pit, or chained, or worse—buried under molten stone. But instead…

…he woke in silence.

Not quiet.

Silence.

The kind that presses against your bones, like the world itself is holding its breath.

He lay flat on a glass-like surface that shimmered faintly beneath him. No sky. No sun. Just endless firelight reflecting off obsidian.

He sat up slowly.

Nothing hurt.

That frightened him more than anything else.

"Where the hell am I?"

His voice echoed, but not like a real sound. It came back to him slightly different, laced with something… older.

Kael rose to his feet.

He was still wearing his armor, though the metal felt weightless. His sword was gone.

Instead, something else pulsed at his side—heat, ancient and unfamiliar. A presence.

He turned.

Behind him stood a throne of bones.

Empty.

But not cold.

"So you've come."

The voice didn't come from one direction. It came from everywhere.

Kael turned again—and this time, he saw her.

She wasn't a woman.

She was fire wearing the idea of one.

Tall. Regal. Skin like molten gold, hair a crown of smoke. Her eyes were twin embers—no iris, no whites—just flickering void.

"Are you the godflame?" he asked.

"No," she said. "I am what remains. The godflame is older than language. Older than gods. But I held its name once. I carried its fire. And now, so will you."

Kael's throat tightened. "No. Riven—"

Her name curled like a sneer on his tongue.

She smiled.

"So noble. So tragic. Do you know what love costs, Kael Ashborne?"

"I don't care."

"You will. Before the end."

He walked beside her through the firelit plain.

There were no walls. No stars.

Just distant screams.

Not of agony—but of memory. Echoes of grief, rage, sacrifice. He heard his mother's voice once. Then his father's, shouting through rain. Then Riven's laugh—soft, quiet, private.

It made him stumble.

She noticed.

"Your soul is heavy."

"I carry enough," he said.

"Then carry more."

She turned her hand.

A flame appeared.

Inside it—Riven, lying curled on Kael's bedroll, whispering his name.

Kael's chest burned.

"She loves you, little knight," the woman said. "But love does not save. It only asks."

Kael swallowed hard. "What do you want from me?"

"Not want. Need. You were born of blood and war. Your mother held the line when gods fell. You were born near the last spark of the godflame. It marked you."

He shook his head. "That was a myth."

"No," she said. "That was prophecy. You are what I could never be."

"And what's that?"

Her ember-eyes fixed on him.

"Mercy."

She took him to the Ash Gate.

It stood at the edge of everything.

A doorway made of smoke, hanging in the air, framed in the bones of forgotten kings.

"I cannot force you," she said. "But if you step through this gate, you will return changed. The shard is bound to your blood now. Not to destroy—but to protect."

Kael frowned. "You mean to burn."

"Yes."

She stepped closer.

"You are no longer just a man, Kael. You are a flame made flesh. But your heart—your heart is still yours. That is rare."

He stared into the firelight, past the gate.

"What happens if I don't go back?"

"You fade," she said. "Here. In between. You sleep until all stories end."

"And Riven?"

She tilted her head.

"He burns alone."

He stepped forward.

"Wait," she said.

He turned.

"You must give something," she whispered.

"What?"

"A name. A promise. A scar. Choose."

Kael clenched his jaw.

Then drew his knife.

He cut his palm deep and dropped the blood into the flame.

"I give my name," he said. "To him."

The fire surged.

"I give my promise—to protect him."

It roared.

"And my scar…"

He lifted his shirt, revealing the mark over his heart—an old wound never fully healed, a spear that almost killed him during the rebellion.

"I give the pain of my past. Let it burn. Let it make me stronger."

The fire accepted.

And the gate opened.

Kael collapsed onto dirt and smoke.

The air was real. Heavy. Cold.

He was back.

His body ached.

But inside him—power.

Not a storm.

A sun.

He didn't speak.

Didn't cry.

He simply whispered Riven's name.

And the fire whispered back:

He's waiting.